Destroying Madmen
by Mrs. CumberTennant
Summary: Life is hard and getting harder. Sherlock's world is spinning out of control, and just when he's being exiled-just when he's tied up, *ahem*, every loose end he can-he gets word that his worst enemy has returned. But after all that's happened and all he's admitted to, can Sherlock's life ever return to normal again?


"I've wanted to say this for a long time, and I may as well say it now…"

Sherlock had done everything he could. He'd faked his death and broken up Moriarty's ring, a tedious process that left him more scars than "thank you"s. Only a week into his return, he'd coaxed John into rejoining him and diffused a bomb just beneath Parliament. He'd composed a best man speech—something he hoped he'd never have to do again—and stopped a murderer in the midst of John's wedding. He'd gotten engaged and been shot by someone he trusted and infiltrated Magnussen's home—only to find that everything he'd done was in vain. And then he'd watched Magnussen—the lowest, slimiest man Sherlock had ever had the misfortune to meet—belittle his best friend and smile all the time. Nothing had filled Sherlock with more anger, and it was that moment that he knew he'd have to do something he'd probably never bounce back from.

_It doesn't matter_, he'd thought as he pulled the gun out of his waistband, thumb already on the safety. _It doesn't matter; I've done worse. I've done so much worse. This is for John…I've done so much worse for so much less…._ And Sherlock held the fabricated image of John gunning down the cabbie years before; he held what he imagined to be John's intense, livid expression in his mind as his finger curled around the trigger and he did what Mycroft would consider the unthinkable.

_Yes…I've done worse…._

Yet Sherlock found, to his dismay, that this moment—this last moment with John Watson—was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

At first, it had always been the work. The work was the only thing that gave life meaning and kept Sherlock away from cocaine. And the work was still imperative; he'd die before he stopped taking it, which was probably apt to happen.

But yet…now there were other priorities. There were priorities that Sherlock had never dreamt he'd have. There was the priority of shopping, which Sherlock had grudgingly taken up the chore of doing again now that he didn't have John around to do it. But it was more than shopping; it was eating. Sherlock didn't used to eat, not while working. But when he and John lived together, John would cook and force him to eat something when cases ran long and Sherlock began losing weight. It hadn't occurred to Sherlock at the time that John noticed when he dropped weight.

But one of the biggest—and most unexpected—priorities Sherlock found himself faced with was his friends; primarily, John. Sherlock had always looked out for Mrs Hudson, yes, and Lestrade would be nothing without him. But John had been a sudden encounter, although not an unpleasant one. When the Afghanistan veteran had limped into his office, Sherlock could tell he was strange. Strange in the good sense, of course; he wasn't quite as spineless or boring as the other people Sherlock had encountered. So Sherlock agreed to be John's flatmate—or rather, as he learned later, he somewhat imposed himself onto John. Sherlock would then argue that he had the right to, since it was _his_ flat he was renting out.

And then…life became more bearable. It was easier to go for days without nicotine patches—unless, of course, he was trying to think. And Sherlock found (though he'd never admit it) that solving cases was easier with another person. Albeit, John was worse than hopeless when Sherlock was deducing, but in a fight he proved rather useful. He'd shot the cabbie, and if Sherlock had been alone the Golem would have probably succeeded in suffocating him. Sherlock supposed he should properly thank John for saving his life, but they'd saved each other's lives about the same number of times, so Sherlock liked to think that made up for it.

But then Sherlock had had to fake his death. He'd suspected he'd need to—Moriarty's path of destruction that decimated Sherlock's career could, ultimately, only lead to a forced suicide—so he'd planned. He'd gathered the masses and imparted the secret onto each of them, Molly included. He knew he wouldn't tell Lestrade; the man was a terrible liar, and he didn't want the rumor spread out through Lestrade's employees. If Anderson found out, he'd tell the world immediately, and all stealth would be lost.

But when it came time to decide whether or not to tell John, Sherlock fretted. He'd never fretted over a decision before, and he found the situation to be awful. On one hand, John might be useful. He could probably help to rebuild Sherlock's credibility after he committed suicide, and he'd be a handy informant. Hell, he could probably bust Sherlock out of a few fights; maybe John could pretend to travel for a few years under the alias of recovering from grief, and they could continue their partners-in-crime; the detective and the blogger gone international.

On the other hand, though, it could prove detrimental to the entire plan. John wasn't stealthy, and he couldn't deduce to save his life. John could barely tell which of his friends only pretended to like him and when women became disenchanted with him. And it would be safer for John to stay behind; maybe keep in contact with Lestrade. Sherlock, not wanting to take any more risks than he had to, decided to leave John out of the loop.

It was only when Sherlock returned, under the guise of a French waiter (an attempt at a joke that turned out not to be very funny), that he realized his mistake. Sherlock Holmes had previously never made mistakes, and realizing that he had made one unsettled Sherlock. But when he could see John glaring at him, and when he tackled him to the ground in restaurant after restaurant, and when Sherlock couldn't convince John to rejoin him in pursuit of the Game—that was when Sherlock knew he'd done it wrong. He'd done something wrong. He _hated_ doing things wrong.

It hurt.

Sherlock hadn't realized it would hurt. It made him so angry with himself; he wanted to shoot the fireplace. He watched John hail a cab and beckon his soon-to-be-fiancée (the evidence was all there) into it, leaving him to brood on the sidewalk. Solving cases without him was dull at best. Molly was sweet, and she did try her best—but she wasn't John. They both knew it, her most of all.

But then John came back, and it was like old times, and Sherlock was again shocked at how happy the old times made him. Fooling John in the bomb-infused carriage had been a bit underhanded, but John's declaration—_"You were the best, and the wisest man I have ever known. And, yes, of course I forgive you."—_had instilled new hope in Sherlock that he hadn't known was missing. He used to believe hope was for the weak, and the stupid. But the more time he spent with John, it seemed, the weaker and stupid Sherlock became.

Then there was the wedding, which was…interesting, to say the least. The best man's speech was hell to write, although Lestrade helped considerably with that; it was the first time Lestrade had ever been helpful with anything. Sherlock did his best to deliver it, and the experience was both awful and wonderful. On one hand, he'd had to ad lib and appear half-crazy for the last half of it—but he'd incarcerated a murderer while he was at it, so the two cancelled each other out. But on the other, just when he thought things were going south, John hugged him. He hadn't ever established any physical contact with John previously; the two were close, but it had never occurred to Sherlock to bridge that gap. Then he wished he had before. Later, he pretended this thought had never come to him.

And, later, he'd played his waltz for John and Mary. He was happy to play it—honored, even. But he found it hard to actually watch the bride and groom dance, which confused Sherlock enough to leave him pondering it later—so he focused on the sheet music. He concentrated on the varying notes; he kept a careful eye on his tempo and the key he was in. All of which, he knew, was unnecessary; he'd memorized the piece back to front before the wedding. But it was easier than observing the dancers.

But then the real dancing began, and when Sherlock found himself singled out on the floor, his palms sweated. He watched John and Mary as they wrapped their arms around each other and laughed, and he saw Molly with her fiancé and Janine with whatever groomsman she'd seduced. Everybody had somebody, and Sherlock would normally shy away from even the thought of physical touch—but this time, he ducked his head and clenched his jaw and decided that it bothered him this time. Maybe it was jealousy, or loneliness, or some other boring, stupid emotion that he was disgusted to be experiencing. Stomach turning, Sherlock did the only thing that made sense to him: he left the wedding. No one missed him.

Then…there was Magnussen. Sherlock could think of a thousand things that had been more pleasant than him. Two things that _didn't_ make that list, however, were seducing Janine and being shot by Mary. Janine, to her credit, was witty and interesting—but kissing her took all of Sherlock's willpower each and every time. And, of course, during the actual break-in, Sherlock had had to endure Mary in her all-black sneak suit with a revolver in her grip. Even when she pulled the trigger, Sherlock knew she didn't want to. It was in her eyes, and the set of her jaw, and the way she only had one hand on the gun.

Then Sherlock was comatose. He was lucid enough to fall on his back and keep himself from going into shock. But there were demons in his mind palace—demons he thought he'd chained up, except now he was chained alongside them. And as he felt himself dying—his heartbeat shuddering, his muscles stiffening—the emotions were rushing alongside him. Sherlock loathed emotions; they overcomplicated what could be so, so simple. But there was _pain_—so much _pain_—that it was almost worse than the gunshot wound. And Sherlock had curled up in his mind, his eyelids clenched tightly enough to scathe his pupils, unable to stop feeling it. It wasn't the blood loss that was killing him—it was the heartbreak, seated deep in his gut and spreading throughout him like a parasite.

But he'd _had_ to wake up. He'd seen the waves his death created. He'd listened to John's soliloquy before Sherlock's gravestone, and he'd watched the anger and betrayal and hurt in his friend's eyes two years later. And now—_now_—John was in danger. There was Magnussen; there was Mary; there was God-knows-what-else threatening him and if Sherlock died there'd be no one left to keep him out of harm's way.

So Sherlock survived, and he survived on pure grit alone.

Then, it had fallen to him to tell John the truth. Sherlock didn't know much about friendship, but he knew that he should tell his best friend that his wife was a CIA refugee. It had hurt John, which then hurt Sherlock—at this point, it was cause-and-effect, and Sherlock was powerless to change it. But he patched up their marriage as best he could and laid the truth out before everyone before retreating into his life of near-solitude and moodiness.

But then it just had to (it just _had_ to!) rise to some kind of twisted climax, and that climax was Magnussen flicking John's face._ "Try to keep your eye open. It's very hard, isn't it?"_

Sherlock couldn't stomach it. He'd endured a lot of his own abuse; Sally's, Anderson's, Moriarty's, self-inflicted. He deserved it. Sherlock didn't feel like normal people; he didn't react like them. But John did, and John had done enough to deserve better than what life granted him, which had manifested into a power-hungry genius flicking him in the face.

_I've done worse…_ Reaching for the gun. _I've done so much worse…_ Turning the safety off. _This is for John…_ Exposing the weapon. _I've done so much worse for so much less…_

_ Bang_!

Now, the day was bright and the plane behind him beckoned to a life of isolation and work that would likely keep him occupied for years on end. It was just what the old Sherlock would've wanted: an endless Game.

But now he had friendships. He had reasons to stay. He _had_ to stay for John. There was no life outside of John. No one had so appreciated him—had so praised him—had so included him—had so made him feel quite as _human_….

Sherlock swallowed, and he looked up—looked at John half-smiling, as if Sherlock couldn't tell by his posture and the shaking in his left hand (_John's hand _never_ shakes…)_ that he was upset.

The words were in his chest, halfway up his throat, pressed up against the back of his teeth—but he couldn't say them. Even now, in his last moments, he couldn't say them.

So…Sherlock settled for second-best. He'd be rewarded by John's smile, at least; with luck, he could hold that image in his mind for the next few years.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

"No—no—wait."

Sherlock whirled around; he was halfway up the staircase into the plane, one hand still gripped on the railing. His stomach was knotting, but he turned and looked back at John—who, apparently, hadn't expected Sherlock to double back, since there was no unconvincing smile on his face now.

"What?" John said, nonplussed. He reached up to push the loose hair off his forehead, but Sherlock knew he was trying to disguise the fact that he was wiping his eyes. "What, what is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. He pursed his lips and descended the stairs again. The pilot looked at Sherlock quizzically. Mycroft stared at him through his windshield; Sherlock heard him roll the window down.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock raised his hand, not taking his eyes away from John. He knew if he looked away—if he spared himself a moment's doubt—it would all be over.

"Just—just—just—just a minute, please," Sherlock stammered, disgusted with how stupid he sounded. "Just a moment's privacy, please. Play—play music or something."

Mycroft squinted at Sherlock for a moment; then, with an eye roll, he rolled the window back up and obediently turned on his radio. Muted classical music wafted through the cracks of the car.

Sherlock licked his lips, repressing the urge to glance away and at his shoes or something. John was looking more confused by the minute.

"Sherlock…what is it?"

_What, indeed? _Sherlock, for all his brilliance, had never—not even _once_—envisioned an emotional moment involving himself. Whenever he saw them on telly, he'd wanted to retch. _How can people be so stupid—so predictable_ _and boring? How can they be so naïve? _Now he was locked in one of those moments he hated. What had his life become? A bad sitcom? Some stupid late-night, hour-long crime drama? If that _were _true, the producers sure liked to have a laugh at peoples' emotions, the way things were going.

"Sherlock, you're starting to freak me out again," John said candidly, bringing Sherlock back to the present.

"No—sorry, sorry." Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them quickly. _Keep looking at John. It's imperative. _He felt like he was reliving his scene on the rooftop some years back. _"Keep your eyes fixed on me!"_

"John…." Sherlock pursed his lips and tried again. "John, I…I honestly have no idea what I'm doing. I—I'm rubbish at goodbyes."

John's mouth quirked. "I've noticed," he said dryly.

Sherlock managed a chuckle, even though his stomach felt like it was clenched into a fist. _Okay. Okay. Here I go. _"John, you…you told me, erm, once, that I was the best man you'd ever known."

"Best man I _know_," John corrected him, and Sherlock blinked. "Don't talk about yourself like you're dead. You're coming back. You always do."

Sherlock appreciated that, even though he wasn't sure it was true. Still, he smiled.

"Yes, of course. You said I'm the best man you've ever known, but…but you're wrong. Entirely wrong."

John's smile faded. He blinked. "What?"

"I'm not the best man…the best man there is. I'm nowhere _near_ that—I…." The words were coming out jumbled and disjointed. "I'm self-absorbed, and I…I'm petty—yes, very—and I…I underestimate. I underestimate everything and overestimate myself."

John appeared to be on the verge of laughing, which Sherlock didn't understand.

"What are you, a teenager?" John joked. "Great men aren't perfect. Then there'd be no great men."

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes, but…I'm not the best. _You're _the best, John; you're the…the best man _I've_ known."

John smiled sadly, like he didn't believe him. "Oh, there's no need for that. You must've known some greater men than me."

"No, really—I mean it, John! Really." Sherlock took in a deep breath. "And if you're really delusional enough to think that I'm a great man…the only reason I am is because you made me that way."

"Made you…made you how?"

"By…by _being _there, John! I don't know. I'm clueless. I'm being boring—"

"No, no, no, you're fine, Sherlock," John assured him hurriedly. He held out a hand, like he wanted to put it on Sherlock's shoulder, but it hovered awkwardly in midair before John lowered it. Sherlock winced internally; John still thought he had some aversion to him, when really Sherlock only had an aversion to his inability to get this moment over with so he could stop screwing it up.

"But, um…." Now he'd lost the words. He tried to remember them. How did people do this? How did _anyone do this_?! "John, um, you made me better—you did. You dragged me into your wedding, and—and you made me your friend. You made me part of your life, and all I did was make yours hell—"

"What makes you think you made my life hell?" John interjected, looking worried. "Sherlock, if this life was hell I never would've gotten into it." He chuckled sharply, although it sounded more like he was in pain. "I wouldn't be…missing it already now."

Sherlock pondered this. John's brow creased.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, concerned. "You're…acting weird."

Sherlock smiled even though he was panicking. "Yes, I—I suppose I am." He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Listen, John."

There was a pause. "I'm listening."

Sherlock swallowed. There was only one way to get the words out and do them justice, especially since he had almost no chance of getting John to believe him.

"There was a—a moment, when I was shot…." He didn't exactly want to dredge up _this _memory, since it involved John's wife, but it really was the only one he could think of. "And I was…I was dying, and I was in my mind palace, and…and I was yelling at myself, because I was in—I guess, I don't know, I was in the 'bad part'—"

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense," John informed him worriedly. Sherlock looked up and could see that John clearly feared that Sherlock was clinically insane. _Am I? Eh, maybe._

"The _point is_—" Sherlock said sharply, as much to reroute his own thoughts as to reroute John, "that _when _I was dying, I was just about to die—hell, I'd already made all the arrangements in my head _to _die—but then I remembered something." He hurried on before John could reply. He forced himself to look at John, but no amount of willpower could make him meet his eyes, so he settled for staring at the collar of his friend's black jacket. "I remembered that _you_…you needed me."

John looked confused. Sherlock plowed on.

"Well, not '_needed _me' needed me; you could've taken care of yourself. But Magnussen was still out there, and so was Mary—because I didn't know anything at the time; I had no idea if she was a danger to you—and I knew that I was the only one who could _stop _those things."

There was a long pause. Sherlock knew he wasn't done. He scrunched his eyes shut and opened them again, still unable to look John in the face.

"I didn't really _want _to survive…," he went on, his voice sounding broken even in his own ears. "Well, I did, but I knew it would be hard…I knew it would take far too long to recover, and I didn't want to have to put up with any of that; not to mention the fact that my body was beginning to shut down _anyway_ and one always feels powerless while dying—well I guess you wouldn't know that if you haven't already exp—_I'm getting off subject_!" He sighed exasperatedly, grabbing a fistful of his hair in the process, and looked up again. _This _time he found John's eyes.

"I _made _myself survive," he said, his voice sounding choked. John looked worried bordering on scared. "I _made myself survive _even though I didn't want to, and it wasn't because of Magnussen or Mycroft or the Game anymore, because even then I knew that that wasn't it. I made myself survive because you were in danger, and I…I _needed you to be safe _because I…." He swallowed, knowing that his once-perfect mask of emotion was completely gone now. "I needed you safe because I couldn't imagine a world where you weren't. Not without it hurting like…like nothing I thought would hurt before."

John frowned. Then his eyes slowly widened and his jaw slackened. He got it; he finally got it. Sherlock hoped so, at least, because _he_ didn't even fully get it.

"Sherlock…you—you know that you—"

Mycroft honked his horn; both men nearly jumped out of their skin. Mycroft rolled down the window and stuck his head out the window.

"Sherlock, as much as I pity you, I do feel like I'm partially putting you out of your misery," he announced bluntly. "Look, I know you two will miss each other, but nobody's _dying_. Let's move on with it. I don't have all day!" He exited the car, leaving the music playing. Sherlock thought it might be Mozart, but it didn't matter to him right now.

John looked at Sherlock urgently, his eyes crying for help. Sherlock's heart withered. _No, no, no, I've made it worse!_

"Sherlock, no—no, you can't leave right now!" John asserted helplessly.

Sherlock had no idea what that meant. That John reciprocated? No, definitely not; the poor man was married and expecting. He was probably more overcome than anything.

At least Sherlock had picked a good time. By the time he returned (if at all), John's daughter would be born and a year or two old, and Sherlock will have been separated from him long enough for whatever leftover sticky emotions to _hopefully _dissipate. Sherlock could think of nothing more desirable right then, when his heart was being so strongly that he thought his ribs would crack.

He turned to Mycroft, who was striding forward impatiently. Sherlock scowled in annoyance; at least _that _emotion was familiar.

"No need to shove me," Sherlock snarled. "I'm _going_."

Mycroft crossed his arms. Sherlock thought he looked a bit remorseful, but Mycroft was clinical if anything. Sherlock wished he were still clinical.

"Call me when you've landed," Mycroft said primly. "Just to let me know you haven't, I don't know, skydived into the middle of the Pacific."

Sherlock ignored the jab; he pounded up the steps, shoving his emotions far down into his stomach—where they would hopefully starve and die and he'd never have to deal with them again. Sherlock suspected, however, that it wouldn't be that easy.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, his voice cracking. "Sherlock, wait! Stop!"

Sherlock's chest constricted; he couldn't tell if his heart was skipping a beat or breaking. Both were cliché and beneath him; he chose to ignore it.

"I'm sorry, John," he called back, not turning around. If looking at John was important before, _not _looking at him was all that mattered now. "This is for the best. I…I'm sorry." He walked into the plane and reached up for the handle on the hatch.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock strode forward and closed the hatch himself.


End file.
